LIBRARY QF CONGRESS, 

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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



English Poems. 



ENGLISH POEMS. 



1 1 



ILLUSTRATED WITH ETCHINGS 
M. M. TAYLOR. 




2- 0- 






PHILADELPHIA: 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY. 
1891. 



V, 



: \ 






Copyright, 1890, by J. B. Lippincott Company. 



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■i' \y ■■ • ^tj : 



CONTENTS. 



Evening 

Catharina . 

The Solitary Reaper 

The Lazy Mist . 

Noon .... 

Loch Long . 

The Rural Walk 

Evening in the Mountains 

fontainebleau . 

A Fragment 

Autumn 

The Last Minstrel . 

Winter 

Flocks and Herds 

A Sea Fog . 

The Cloud . 

Kindness 



Cunningham 




Pa; 


re 7 


Cowper 


10 


Wordsworth 






H 


Bums . 






16 


Cunningham 






17 


Rogers . 






20 


Cowper 






24 


Wordsworth 






25 


Davy 






27 


Davy . 






30 


Wordszvorth 






32 


Scott . 






34 


Barton . 






40 


Thomson 






4i 


Crabbe . 






42 


Shelley . 






43 


Talfonrd 






48 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 

"EVENING" Frontispiece 

"THE LAZY MIST" Facing page 16 

"THE RURAL WALK" " "24 

"AUTUMN" " "32 

"WINTER" " "40 



EVENING. 

O'er the heath the heifer strays 
Free (the furrow'd task is done) : 

Now the village windows blaze, 
Burnish'd by the setting sun. 

Now he sets behind the hill, 
Sinking from a golden sky : 

Can the pencil's mimic skill 
Copy the refulgent dye ? 

Trudging as the ploughmen go 
(To the smoking hamlet bound), 

Giant-like their shadows grow, 

Lengthening o'er the level ground. 

7 



Where the rising forest spreads 
Shelter for the lordly dome, 

To their high-built airy beds 
See the rooks returning home. 

As the lark with varied tune 
Carols to the evening loud, 

Mark the mild resplendent moon 
Breaking through a parted cloud 

Now the hermit owlet peeps 

From the barn or twisted brake, 

And the blue mist slowly creeps 
Curling on the silver lake. 

As the trout, in speckled pride, 
Playful from its bosom springs, 

To the banks a ruffled tide 
Verges in successive rings. 



Tripping through the silken grass 
O'er the path-divided dale, 

Mark the rose-complexion'd lass 
With her well-poised milking-pail. 

Linnets with unnumber'd notes, 
And the cuckoo-bird with two, 

Tuning sweet their mellow throats, 
Bid the setting sun adieu. 



Cunningham. 



CATHARINA. 

She came, — she is gone, — we have met, 

And meet perhaps never again ; 
The sun of that moment is set, 

And seems to have risen in vain. 
Catharina has fled like a dream 

(So vanishes pleasure, alas !) — 
But has left a regret and esteem 

That will not so suddenly pass. 

The last evening ramble we made, 

Catharina, Maria, and I, 
Our progress was often delay'd 

By the nightingale warbling nigh : 
We paused under many a tree, 

And much she was charm'd with a tone 
Less sweet to Maria and me, 

Who so lately had witness'd her own. 

10 



My numbers that day she had sung, 

And gave them a grace so divine 
As only her musical tongue 

Could infuse into numbers of mine 
The longer I heard, I esteem'd 

The work of my fancy the more, 
And even to myself never seem'd 

So tuneful a poet before. 



Though the pleasures of London exceed 

In numbers the days of the year, 
Catharina, did nothing impede, 

Would feel herself happier here ; 
For the close-woven arches of limes 

On the banks of our river, I know, 
Are sweeter to her many times 

Than aught that the city can show. 



ii 



So it is when the mind is endued 

With a well-judging taste from above 
Then, whether embellish'd or rude, 

'Tis nature alone that we love. 
The achievements of art may amuse, 

May even our wonder excite, 
But groves, hills, and valleys diffuse 

A lasting, a sacred delight. 



Since then in the rural recess 

Catharina alone can rejoice, 
May it still be her lot to possess 

The scene of her sensible choice, — 
To inhabit a mansion remote 

From the clatter of street-pacing steeds, 
And by Philomel's annual note 

To measure the life that she leads. 



12 



With her book, and her voice, and her lyre, 

To wing all her moments at home, 
And with scenes that new rapture inspire, 

As oft as it suits her to roam, 
She will have just the life she prefers, 

With little to hope or to fear ; 
And ours would be pleasant as hers, 

Might we view her enjoying it here. 

Cowper. 



»3 



THE SOLITARY REAPER. 

Behold her single in the field, 

Yon solitary Highland lass, 
Reaping and singing by herself: 

Stop here, or gently pass ! 
Alone she cuts and binds the grain, 
And sings a melancholy strain ; 
Oh, listen ! for the vale profound 
Is overflowing with the sound. 

No nightingale did ever chant 

More welcome notes to weary bands 
Of travellers in some shady haunt 

Among Arabian sands : 
Such thrilling voice was never heard 
In spring-time from the cuckoo-bird, 
Breaking the silence of the seas 
Among the farthest Hebrides. 

'4 



Will no one tell me what she sings? 

Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow 
For old, unhappy, far-off things, 

And battles long ago : 
Or is it some more humble lay, 
Familiar matter of to-day? — 
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, 
That has been, and may be again ? 

Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang 
As if her song could have no ending ; 

I saw her singing at her work, 
And o'er the sickle bending. 

I listen'd, motionless and still ; 

And when I mounted up the hill, 

The music in my heart I bore 

Long after it was heard no more. 

Wordsworth. 



15 



THE LAZY MIST. 

The lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill, 

Concealing the course of the dark winding- rill ; 

How languid the scenes, late so sprightly, appear, 

As autumn to winter resigns the pale year ! 

The forests are leafless, the meadows are brown, 

And all the gay foppery of summer is flown : 

Apart let me wander, apart let me muse, 

How quick time is flying, how keen fate pursues ; 

How long I have lived, but how much lived in vain ; 

How little of life's scanty span may remain ; 

What aspects old Time in his progress has worn ; 

What ties cruel Fate in my bosom has torn. 

How foolish, or worse, till our summit is gain'd ! 

And, downward, how weaken'd, how darken'd, how pain'd 

This life's not worth having, with all it can give : 

For something beyond it poor man sure must live. 

Burns. 
16 



NOON. 

Fervid on the glittering flood 

Now the noontide radiance glows : 

Drooping o'er its infant bud, 
Not a dew-drop's left the rose. 

By the brook the shepherd dines, 
From the fierce meridian heat 

Shelter'd by the branching pines 
Pendent o'er his grassy seat. 

Now the flock forsakes the glade, 
Where, uncheck'd, the sunbeams fall, 

Sure to find a pleasing shade 
By the ivied abbey wall. 



17 



Echo, in her airy round 

O'er river, rock, and hill, 
Cannot catch a single sound, 

Save the clack of yonder mill. 

Cattle court the zephyrs bland 

Where the streamlet wanders cool, 

Or with languid silence stand 
Midway in the marshy pool. 

But from mountain, dell, or stream 
Not a fluttering zephyr springs, 

Fearful lest the noontide beam 
Scorch its soft, its silken wings. 

Not a leaf has leave to stir ; 

Nature's lull'd, serene, and still ; 
Quiet e'en the shepherd's cur, 

Sleeping on the heath-clad hill. 



18 



Languid is the landscape round, 
Till die fresh descending shower, 

Grateful to the thirsty ground, 
Raises every fainting flower. 

Now the hill, the hedge is green, 
Now the warblers' throats in tune ; 

Blithesome is the verdant scene, 
Brighten'd by the beams of Noon. 

Cunningham. 



19 



LOCH LONG. 

Blue was the loch, the clouds were gone, 
Ben-Lomond in his glory shone, 
When, Luss, I left thee ; when the breeze 
Bore me from thy silver sands, 
Thy kirk-yard wall among the trees, 
Where, gray with age, the dial stands, 
That dial so well known to me ! 
— Though many a shadow it had shed, 
Beloved sister, since with thee 
The legend on the stone was read. 

The fairy isles fled far away : 
That with its woods and uplands green 
Where shepherd-huts are dimly seen 
And songs are heard at close of day ; 



That, too, the deer's wild covert, fled, 
And that, the asylum of the dead : 
While, as the boat went merrily, 
Much of Rob Roy the boatman told, — 
His arm that fell below his knee, 
His cattle-ford and mountain-hold. 

Tarbat, thy shore I climb'd at last ; 
And, thy shady region pass'd, 
Upon another shore I stood, 
And look'd upon another flood, 
Great Ocean's self! ('tis He who fills 
That vast and awful depth of hills ;) 
Where many an elf was playing round 
Who treads unshod his classic ground, 
And speaks, his native rocks among, 
As Fingal spoke and Ossian sung. 

Night fell ; and dark and darker grew 
That narrow sea, that narrow sky, 
As o'er the glimmering waves we flew, 
The sea-bird rustling, wailing by. 

21 



And now the grampus, half descried, 

Black and huge above the tide ; 

The cliffs and promontories there, 

Front to front, and broad and bare, 

Each beyond each, with giant feet 

Advancing- as in haste to meet ; 

The shatter' d fortress, whence the Dane 

Blew his shrill blast, nor rush'd in vain, 

Tyrant of the drear domain ; 

All into midnight shadow sweep — 

When day springs upward from the deep 

Kindling the waters in its flight, 

The prow wakes splendor ; and the oar, 

That rose and fell unseen before, 

Flashes in a sea of light. 

Glad sign and sure ! for now we hail 

Thy flowers, Glenfinnart, in the gale ; 

And bright indeed the path should be 

That leads to friendship and to thee ! 



O blest retreat, and sacred too ! 
Sacred as when the bell of prayer 
Toll'd duly on the desert air, 
And crosses deck'd thy summits blue. 
Oft, like some loved romantic tale, 
Oft shall my weary mind recall, 
Amid the hum and stir of men, 
Thy beechen grove and water-fall, 
Thy ferry with its gliding sail, 
And her — the Lady of the Glen ! 



Rogers. 



THE RURAL WALK. 

For I have loved the rural walk through lanes 

Of grassy swarth close-cropped by nibbling sheep, 

And skirted thick with intertexture firm 

Of thorny boughs ; have loved the rural walk 

O'er hills, through valleys, and by river's brink, 

E'er since, a truant boy, I passed my bounds, 

T' enjoy a ramble on the banks of Thames ; 

And still remember, nor without regret, 

Of hours, that sorrow has since much endeared. 

How oft, my slice of pocket store consumed, 

Still hungering, penniless, and far from home, 

I fed on scarlet hips and stony haws, 

Or blushing crabs, or berries that emboss 

The bramble, black as jet, or sloes austere. 

Hard fare ! but such as boyish appetite 

Disdains not, nor the palate, undepraved 

By culinary arts, unsavory deems. 

Cowper. 
24 




Wm:^sAj^ 



EVENING IN THE MOUNTAINS. 

Has not the soul, the being of your life 

Received a shock of awful consciousness, 

In some calm season, when these lofty rocks, 

At night's approach, bring down th' unclouded sky 

To rest upon their circumambient walls, 

A temple framing of dimensions vast, 

And yet not too enormous for the sound 

Of human anthems, choral song, or burst 

Sublime of instrumental harmony, 

To glorify the Eternal ! What if these 

Did never break the stillness that prevails 

Here, if the solemn nightingale be mute, 

And the soft wood-lark here did never chant 

Her vespers, Nature fails not to provide 

Impulse and utterance. The whispering air 

25 



Sends inspiration from the shadowy heights 
And blind recesses of the cavern'd rocks ; 
The little rills and waters numberless, 
Inaudible by daylight, blend their notes 
With the loud streams ; and often, at the hour 
When issue forth the first pale stars, is heard, 
Within the circuit of this fabric hug-e, 
One voice, — one solitary raven, flying 
Athwart the concave of the dark-blue dome, 
Unseen, perchance above the power of sight, — 
An iron knell ! with echoes from afar, 
Faint, and still fainter. 

Wordsworth. 



26 



FONTAINEBLEAU. 

The mists disperse, and, where a sullen cloud 
Hung on the mountain's verge, the sun bursts forth 
In all its majesty of purple light. 
It is a winter's evening, and the year 
Is fast departing ; yet the hues of heaven 
Are bright as in the summer's warmest month. 
It is the season of the sleep of things ; 
But Nature in her sleep is lovely still ! 
The trees display no green, no forms of life ; 
And yet a magic foliage clothes them round, 
And purest crystals of pellucid ice, 
All purple in the sunset. 'Midst the wood 
Fantastically rise the towering cliffs, 
That in another season had been white, 

27 



But now, contrasted with the brilliant ice, 
Shine in aerial tints of purest blue. 
The varied outline has a thousand charms : 
Here rises high a venerable wood, 
Where oaks are seen with massy ice girt round, 
And birches pendent with their glittering arms, 
And graceful beeches clinging to the soil ; 
There, massy forms exist of rocks alone, — 
Rising as if the work of human art, 
The pride of some great Paladin of old, 
In awful ruins. Nearer, I behold 
The palace of a race of mighty kings ; 
But now another tenants. On these walls, 
Where erst the silver lily spread her leaves, — 
The graceful symbol of a brilliant court, — 
The golden eagle shines, the bird of prey, 
Emblem of rapine and of lawless power : 
Such is the fitful change of human things ; 
An empire rises, like a cloud in heaven, 
Red in the morning sun, spreading its tints 

28 



Of golden hue along the feverish sky, 

And filling the horizon ; soon its tints 

Are darken'd, and it brings the thunder-storm, 

Lightning, and hail, and desolation comes, 

But in destroying it dissolves, and falls, 

Never to rise ! 

Davy. 



29 



A FRAGMENT. 

It is alone in solitude we feel 
And know what powers belong to us. 
By sympathy excited, and constrain'd 
By tedious ceremony in the world, 
Many whom we are fit to lead we follow ; 
And fools, and confident men, and those who think 
Themselves all-knowing, from the littleness 
Of their own talents, and the sphere they move in, 
Which is most little, — these do rule the world. 
Even like the poet's dream of elder time : 
The fabled Titans imaged to aspire 
Unto the infinitely distant heaven, 
Because they raised a pile of common stones, 
And higher stood than those around them. 



The great is ever 
Obscure, indefinite ; and knowledge still, 
The highest, the most distant, most sublime, 
Is, like the stars, composed of luminous points, 
But without visible image or known distance. 
E'en with respect to human things and forms, 
We estimate and know them but in solitude. 
The eye of the worldly man is insect-like, 
Fit only for the near and single objects ; 
The true philosopher in distance sees them, 
And scans their forms, their bearings and relations. 
To view a lovely landscape in its whole, 
We do not fix upon one cave, or rock, 
Or woody hill, out of the mighty range 
Of the wide scenery: we rather mount 
A lofty knoll to mark the varied whole, — 
The waters blue, the mountains gray and dim, 
The shaggy hills, and the embattled cliffs, 
With their mysterious glens, awakening 

Imagination wild, interminable ! 

Davy. 
3i 



AUTUMN. 

The sylvan slopes with corn-clad fields 
Are hung, as if with golden shields, 

Bright trophies of the sun ! 
Like a fair sister of the sky, 
Unruffled doth the blue lake lie, 

The mountains looking on. 

And, sooth to say, yon vocal grove, 
Albeit uninspired by love, 

By love untaught to ring, 
May well afford to mortal ear 
An impulse more profoundly dear 

Than music of the spring. 

32 







fflW»'.J - ■<■■ 



V '?..." 



I 



/^TaW" 



For that from turbulence and heat 
Proceeds, from some uneasy seat 

In nature's struc^lin^ frame, 
Some region of impatient life ; 
And jealousy, and quivering strife, 

Therein a portion claim. 

This, this is holy : while I hear 
These vespers of another year, 

This hymn of thanks and praise, 
My spirit seems to mount above 
The anxieties of human love, 

And earth's precarious days. 

But list ! though winter storms be nigh, 
Uncheck'd is that soft harmony : 

There lives Who can provide 
For all his creatures ; and in Him, 
Even like the radiant seraphim, 

These choristers confide. 

33 Wordsworth. 



THE LAST MINSTREL. 

The way was long, the wind was cold ; 
The minstrel was infirm and old ; 
His wither' d cheek and tresses gray 
Seem'd to have known a better day ; 
The harp, his sole remaining joy, 
Was carried by an orphan boy. 
The last of all the bards was he, 
Who sung of border chivalry. 
For, well-a-day ! their date was fled, 
His tuneful brethren all were dead, 
And he, neglected and oppress'd, 
Wish'd to be with them, and at rest. 
No more, on prancing palfrey borne, 
He caroll'd, light as lark at morn ; 

34 



No longer, courted and caress'd, 

High placed in hall, a welcome guest, 

He pour'd to lord and lady gay 

The unpremeditated lay: 

Old times were changed, old manners gone ; 

A stranger fill'd the Stuarts' throne ; 

The bigots of the iron time 

Had call'd his harmless art a crime. 

A wandering harper, scorn'd and poor, 

He begg'd his bread from door to door, 

And tuned to please a peasant's ear 

The harp a king had loved to hear. 

He pass'd where Newark's stately tower 
Looks out from Yarrow's birchen bower : 
The minstrel gazed with wistful eye, — 
No humbler resting-place was nigh. 
With hesitating step, at last, 
The embattled portal-arch he pass'd, 
Whose ponderous grate and massy bar 
Had oft roll'd back the tide of war, 

35 



But never closed the iron door 
Against the desolate and poor. 
The duchess mark'd his weary pace, 
His timid mien and reverend face, 
And bade her page the menials tell 
That they should tend the old man well ; 
For she had known adversity, 
Though born in such a high degree, — 
In pride of power, in beauty's bloom, 
Had wept o'er Monmouth's bloody tomb. 
When kindness had his wants supplied, 
And the old man was gratified, 
Began to rise his minstrel pride ; 
And he beran to talk anon 

o 

Of srood Earl Francis, dead and gone, 
And of Earl Walter, rest him God ! — 
A braver ne'er to battle rode ; 
And how full many a tale he knew 
Of the old warriors of Buccleuch ; 
And, would the noble duchess deign 

36 



To listen to an old man's strain, 

Though stiff his hand, his voice though weak, 

He thought, even yet, the sooth to speak, 

That if she loved the harp to hear, 

He could make music to her ear. 

The humble boon was soon obtain'd ; 
The aged minstrel audience gain'd. 
But when he reach'd the room of state, 
Where she with all her ladies sate, 
Perchance he wish'd his boon denied ; 
For, when to tune his harp he tried, 
His trembling hand had lost the ease 
Which marks security to please, 
And scenes, long past, of joy and pain, 
Came wildering o'er his aged brain, — 
He tried to tune his harp in vain. 
The pitying duchess praised its chime, 
And gave him heart, and gave him time, 
Till every string's according glee 
Was blended into harmony. 

37 



And then, he said, he would full fain 

He could recall an ancient strain, 

He never thought to sing - again. 

It was not framed for village churls, 

But for high dames and mighty earls ; 

He had play'd it to King Charles the good 

When he kept court in Holyrood ; 

And much he wish'd, yet fear'd, to try 

The long-forgotten melody. 

Amid the strings his fingers stray' d, 

And an uncertain warbling made, 

And oft he shook his hoary head. 

But when he caught the measure wild, 

The old man raised his face, and smiled, 

And lighten'd up his faded eye 

With all a poet's ecstasy ! 

In varying cadence, soft or strong, 

He swept the sounding chords along: 

The present scene, the future lot, 

His toils, his wants, were all forgot ; 

38 



Cold diffidence and a^e's frost 
In the full tide of sono- were lost ; 
Each blank, in faithless memory void, 
The poet's glowing thought supplied ; 
And while his harp responsive rung, 
'Twas thus the latest minstrel sung. 



Scott. 



39 



WINTER. 

Thou hast thy beauties, — sterner ones, I own, 
Than those of thy precursors, yet to thee 
Belong the charms of solemn majesty 

And naked grandeur. Awful is the tone 

Of thy tempestuous nights, when clouds are blown 
By hurrying winds across the troubled sky ; 
Pensive, when softer breezes faintly sigh 

Through leafless boughs, with ivy overgrown. 

Thou hast thy decorations, too, although 

Thou art austere, — thy studded mantle, gay 
With icy brilliants, which as proudly glow 
As erst Golconda's, and thy pure array 
Of regal ermine, when the drifted snow 
Envelops Nature, till her features seem 
Like pale but lovely ones seen when we dream. 

Barton. 
40 



FLOCKS AND HERDS. 

Around the adjoining brook, that purls along 
The vocal strove, now fretting o'er a rock, 
Now scarcely moving through a reedy pool, 
Now starting to a sudden stream, and now 
Gently diffused into a limpid plain, 
A various group the herds and flocks compose, — 
Rural confusion ! On the grassy bank 
Some ruminating lie ; while others stand 
Half in the flood, and often bending sip 
The circling surface. In the middle droops 
The strong laborious ox, of honest front, 
Which incomposed he shakes, and from his sides 
The troublous insects lashes with his tail, 
Returning still. Amid his subjects safe, 
Slumbers the monarch swain, his careless arm 
Thrown round his head, on downy moss sustain'd ; 
Here laid his scrip, with wholesome viands fill'd ; 
There, listening every noise, his watchful dog. 

41 Thomson. 



A SEA FOG. 

When all you see through densest fog is seen ; 
When you can hear the fishers near at hand 
Distinctly speak, yet see not where they stand ; 
Or sometimes them and not their boat discern, 
Or, half conceal' d, some figure at the stern ; 
Boys who, on shore, to sea the pebble cast 
Will hear it strike against the viewless mast ; 
While the stern boatman growls his fierce disdain, 
At whom he knows not, whom he threats in vain. 

'Tis pleasant then to view the nets float past, 
Net after net, till you have seen the last, 
And as you wait till all beyond you slip, 
A boat comes gliding from an anchor'd ship, 
Breaking the silence with the dipping oar, 
And their own tones, as laboring for the shore, — 
Those measured tones which with the scene agree, 
And give a sadness to serenity. 

Crabbe. 
42 



THE CLOUD. 

I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, 

From the seas and the streams ; 
I bear liorht shades for the leaves when laid 

In their noonday dreams. 
From my wings are shaken the dews that waken 

The sweet buds every one, 
When rock'd to rest on their mother's breast, 

As she dances about the sun. 
I wield the flail of the lashing hail, 

And whiten the green plains under, 
And then again I dissolve it in rain, 

And laugh as I pass in thunder. 

I sift the snow on the mountains below, 
And their great pines groan aghast ; 

And all the night 'tis my pillow white, 
While I sleep in the arms of the blast. 

43 



Sublime on the towers of my skyey bowers, 

Lightning my pilot sits, 
In a cavern under is fetter'd the thunder, 

It struggles and howls at fits ; 
Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion, 

This pilot is guiding me, 
Lured by the love of the genii that move 

In the depths of the purple sea; 
Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills, 

Over the lakes and the plains, 
Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream, 

The spirit he loves remains ; 
And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile, 

Whilst he is dissolving in rains. 

The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes, 
And his burning plumes outspread, 

Leaps on the back of my sailing rack, 
When the morning star shines dead, 

As on the jag of a mountain crag, 

44 



Which an earthquake rocks and swings, 
An eagle alit one moment may sit 

In the light of its golden wings. 
And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath, 

Its ardors of rest and of love, 
And the crimson pall of eve may fall 

From the depth of heaven above, 
With wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest, 

As still as a brooding dove. 



& 



That orbed maiden, with white fire laden, 

Whom mortals call the moon, 
Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor, 

By the midnight breezes strewn ; 
And wherever the beat of her unseen feet, 

Which only the angels hear, 
May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof, 

The stars peep behind her and peer ; 
And I laugh to see them whirl and flee, 

Like a swarm of golden bees, 

45 



When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent, 
Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas, 

Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high, 
Are each paved with the moon and these. 



I bind the sun's throne with the burnings zone, 

And the moon's with a girdle of pearl ; 
The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim, 

When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl. 
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape, 

Over a torrent sea, 
Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof, 

The mountains its columns be. 
The triumphal arch through which I march 

With hurricane, fire, and snow, 
When the powers of the air are chain'd to my chair, 

Is the million-color'd bow ; 
The sphere-fire above its soft colors wove, 

While the moist earth was laughing below. 

46 



I am the daughter of earth and water, 

And the nursling of the sky : 
I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores ; 

I change, but I cannot die. 
For after the rain, when, with never a stain, 

The pavilion of heaven is bare, 
And the winds and sunbeams, with their convex gleams, 

Build up the blue dome of air, 
I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, 

And out of the caverns of rain, 
Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, 



I arise and unbuild it aeain 



&' 



Shelley. 



47 



KINDNESS. 

The blessings which the weak and poor can scatter 
Have their own season. 'Tis a little thingr 
To give a cup of water ; yet its draught 
Of cool refreshment, drain'd by fever'd lips, 
May give a shock of pleasure to the frame 
More exquisite than when nectarean juice 
Renews the life of joy in happiest hours. 
It is a little thing to speak a phrase 
Of common comfort which by daily use 
Has almost lost its sense ; yet on the ear 
Of him who thought to die unmourn'd 'twill fall 
Like choicest music ; fill the glazing eye 
With gentle tears ; relax the knotted hand 
To know the bonds of fellowship again ; 
And shed on the departing soul a sense 
More precious than the benison of friends 
About the honor'd death-bed of the rich, 
To him who else were lonely, that another 

Of the great family is near and feels. 

Talfourd. 
48 



